You are reading the diary of a new resident artist with her very own work-only studio at one of the hippest galleries in town. (Damned if I know how I got in.) Do you know what this means???!!! Installations every weekend! Private parties at the gallery! An extra notch on my resume! A sense of accomplishment! CAN I GET A HELL YEAH?!
But wait there's more! (giggles like a school girl) That certain celebrity band mate gave me his cell phone number. I know I'm starting to sound like a twit (STARTING to?) but I just have to say it one more time: Guest list. Two shows. I don't know how I did it, but this warrants another hearty HELL YEAHHH!
But enough of that, let's talk art. I'm apparently the co-coordinator of the upcoming art show, which brings with it the responsibility of responding to zillions of voice mails. (I counted.) I'd never admit it to anyone except you, but it makes me feel important when bands and artists are asking me questions as if I really know. I still feel all giddy and weird when I receive phone calls from the gallery owner, a star in her own right. THIS is what it feels like when you do what you love. I am so glad I never listened to my mother.
I know it sounds like all this madness has gone to my head, but I don't feel that way at all. I feel like Cinderella, fearing that when this whirlwind of excitement dies down, the clock will strike twelve, and the stardust will dissipate, morphing me back into the old shy melancholy country girl who never felt at home anywhere. But I'd rather hope that this is just the beginning of more royal balls to come. Fuck the glass slipper, I'll dance barefoot if I have to!
In the meantime I'll try to keep my senses about me and put on an heir of calm, cool collectedness to hide the fact that I'm melting in excitement.
7:30 p.m. - 2006-11-28